Has anyone ever asked you to think about “how many summers” you have left? It’s somehow become a thing, this notion of calculating your remaining seasons in the sun as a barometer of…what, exactly? How much life is left for you? How much fun you still get (or don’t get) to have?
I understand the logic behind it: to encourage us to make the most of the time we’re allotted. Honestly, though, I find it depressing to even think about life that way.
So rather than worry about how many summers I have left, I’m proposing something else entirely: to let go of the idea of summer as a season, as some finite thing, and to embrace summer as a mindset. A feeling. A verb.
I want summer to be somewhere I can return whenever the mood and moment strike. With that in mind, I think it’s time to start having at least four summers a year. *At least.*
And that means more mornings with coffee in the sunshine. More trips to places I haven’t yet explored. More time with old friends I rarely get to see because normal life gets in the way. More intention, more thought, more care- and definitely more savoring of all the sweetness in real-time.
As fate would have it, I’m set to leave for London and Morocco later this week- and as fate also has a great sense of humor, I just heard from some favorite friends who’ve invited me to stay a few days at their gorgeous house in Provence.
Summer in April? That’s one thing I’m happy to be counting on.
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